“Don’t talk folly, child. You must take it up. You know what the object of my life has been. Your brother was murdered; for six long years I have been searching for the man who took his life—I have been a hunter in pursuit of my prey. There is a man alive on this earth whom I must find, my grip must hold him, my revenge must reach him. I die without scenting my quarry, but you must follow where I leave off. There, my brain is clouded, I cannot think, not definitely, not clearly—a short time ago I had a suspicion. I wish Crossley, the detective, were here, I could tell him. It seemed to me that I had got hold of a clue at last, but it has slipped from my fingers, from my memory; I cannot recall it. I choke—this emotion is too much for me. Give me a dose of that medicine, quick.” Nancy turned to a table which stood near. She poured something from a bottle into a medicine glass and brought it to her father. She held the glass to his lips; he drained the contents to the dregs. “That is right,” he panted, “that is good stuff, it warms the heart. I used to give medicine myself like that long ago; there is chloroform in it, it is very comforting. Come to my side, Nancy, let me hold your hand. Remember I am a dying man and the requests of the dying ought to be granted. You are to make me a promise. Your brother, Anthony, was murdered, you are to find the murderer, and to avenge his death; you are to take up my life work, child. If you don’t I shall curse you.” “Where you failed, how am I to succeed?” she answered. “I won’t make that cruel promise.” “If you don’t I’ll curse you,” replied the dying man, his glittering eyes looking full into hers. She shuddered and covered her face with her trembling hands. “I think nothing at all of your squeamish womanly fears,” he said, with an awful sort of sneer. “Sit down by me—I have everything planned out—listen.” CHAPTER III. THE PACKET ON THE UPPER SHELF. As Nancy seated herself on the edge of the bed, her face grew startlingly livid. “You cannot surely mean what you are saying, father,” she replied. “I mean,” said Dr. Follett in a steady and strong voice, “exactly what I say. I have failed to avenge your brother’s death; you must finish my work.” “I am sorry,” said Nancy. “I am sorry at an hour like this to have to refuse you anything, but I cannot do what you ask.” “I will not die until you promise,” replied the doctor. “For six years I have done all that man could do. I have not left a single stone unturned, I have not neglected the slightest clue, yet I have failed. The man who murdered Anthony has still to be found. If he walks this earth he shall be found. I die, but you must find him.” “You forget that I am a girl,” said Nancy; “no girl could undertake work of this kind.”